


Blood and Cigarettes

by BarPurple



Series: Mollcroft for the win [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awesome Molly, Descriptions of Blood, F/M, Major Character Injury, Smoking, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, descriptions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 11:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6467557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BarPurple/pseuds/BarPurple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are injured on a case, leaving Molly to do what she can for Mycroft.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood and Cigarettes

The bunker on the fifteenth hole of Trent Park Golf Club was in need of some serious attention from the grounds keepers. They would have to wait until the crime scene clean up team had removed the sand contaminated with the blood of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. 

A simple suspect interview had resulted in a chase across the golf course as the actual killer panicked thinking he had been found out. Sherlock would probably not admit to it, but the man hadn’t even made it on to his radar until he yelped and bolted from the club house. Lawrence Jacoby had run, so Sherlock and John had run after him. It was such a typical reaction from his little brother. If he had engaged his ridiculous brain for a moment he would have deduced that Jacoby would bolt for his home on Langford Crescent, a little street on the other side of the park. But that would have been the calm and sensible response to a fleeing man and calm and sensible was not a concept Sherlock embraced.

From what Mycroft could piece together Sherlock had been ambushed on the lip of the bunker. Jacoby had incapacitated him by swinging the handle of a sand rake into his head. John had clearly seen his best friend topple backwards into the sand and charged Jacoby only to receive the business end of the rake in the leg. No doubt John would be limping again for a while, but Mycroft considered it to be pure dumb luck that the doctor hadn’t been the one rendered unconscious. Even injured the former army doctor had fought like a fiend to protect his unresponsive friend. Jacoby’s modus operandi was to carve patterns into the flesh of his drugged victims until they expired from blood loss. Mycroft doubted the man would have been able to overcome his inclinations had Sherlock been alone, even with the staff from the clubhouse in slow pursuit. Jacoby had not been transported to the hospital in an ambulance as Sherlock and John had. His transport had been a coroner’s van; apparently he’d fallen onto a lawn aerator throat first. 

Mycroft and Molly had been in the car heading for dinner when the call came. Mycroft’s driver, Vincent would have several new shots to add to his scrapbook of speed camera pictures after the frantic journey to Barnet Hospital. Molly had not complained once about the vice like grip Mycroft had held her hand in during the trip. When he’d risked a sideways glance at her he had found her features set in a look of grim worry, but as always with Molly compassion radiated from her eyes like the sun. She hadn’t turned to face him, but she’d felt his covert gaze and squeezed his hand.

They had seen Sherlock, still unconscious, but prognosis good and spoken to John. In truth John had grinned and giggled at them a lot, but that was understandable considered the amount of pain management he had been given. The pain killers had to be responsible for John’s slurred comment as well.

“He’s gonna have a scar on his forehead. Not gonna be happy about that. He’ll say I should have let him get carved up. Vain git.”

Mycroft tensed. He knew Sherlock was careless with his life, had known it for years, but somehow these words for John of all people brought it crashing home. Molly took his hand and led him from the room. She didn’t stop until they reached the outside of the hospital, by one of the grimy yellow smoking shelters. Mycroft remained still as Molly’s little hand reached into the inside pocket of his overcoat. She withdrew holding a slightly dog-eared pack of cigarettes. The lighter came from her own pocket as she placed two in her mouth and lit them both.

Mycroft accepted the lit smoke from her and leaned back against the shelter. Molly remained in front of him smoking quietly and, he realised, protecting him from the eyes of any one walking along the path from the car park to the hospital. Just in case he needed to let his mask slip a little. He was grateful, but couldn’t express it right now and he knew she understood that. 

“Molly?”

At the sound of her name Molly turned slowly, her bulky coat still offering a shield for Mycroft if he chose. Greg Lestrade was jogging from the car park. He slowed as he saw Molly bring the half smoked cigarette to her lips. Mycroft rose to his feet and nodded a welcome as Lestrade reached them. The DI nodded to their cigarettes.

“That bad?”

“That close.”

Greg took the offered half smoked cigarette from Mycroft. The three of them stood in silence as they pushed away the thoughts of how bad this could have been and focused on the fallout of what had in fact happened.

**Author's Note:**

> A little thing that's been sitting on my computer for ages. Not a part of anything, just a scene that demanded to be written.


End file.
